


Loss, Lust, and Love on Survivor

by chaos_and_color



Category: Survivor (US TV) RPF
Genre: Consensual, F/M, Father-Daughter Relationship, Flirting, Grief/Mourning, Island Romance, Kissing, Minor Injuries, Reality TV, Survivor - Freeform, Survivor relationships
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-30
Updated: 2019-11-23
Packaged: 2020-07-27 01:35:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 16,665
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20037724
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chaos_and_color/pseuds/chaos_and_color
Summary: A first-person narration of Alina's time on the hit reality show 'Survivor,' and her relationship with the host and producer, Jeff Probst.





	1. It's Only a Finger

“Welcome to Survivor!” Host and Producer Jeff Probst stood on the beach, recognizable in his signature cargo shorts, blue camp shirt with rolled-up sleeves, and a Survivor baseball cap. His arms outspread, he appeared as a Christ-like figure, an icon of hope and fortune in the middle of unfamiliar territory. Splashes drowned out his next words as the twenty new contestants splashed out of the canoes and walked onto the shore, some of us carrying our shoes while others didn’t give a fuck, and trotted on with shoes bogged down by sand and water. We shielded our eyes from the blazing sun as we stared intently at Jeff, waiting expectantly with his hands on his hips. He met our eyes in turn, and when we made eye contact, I smiled and he held my gaze a second longer before giving me the tiniest lopsided smile.

“Alright, quick introduction: say your name and your profession. Let’s start with the guy in the hat,” he explained, gesturing to a stocky man wearing a cowboy hat.  
“I’m Tom. Imma farmer.” He grunted, crossing his arms across his chest. To his right, a petite blond stood shivering. I stared at her, wondering how she would survive a week out here—let alone thirty-nine days.  
“I’m Izzy, and I’m a swimsuit model!” she squeaked, and I rolled my eyes, thinking that she would be the first to vote out if she were in my tribe. In turn, all the contestants said their names and their occupations, until it was my turn.  
I looked squarely at Jeff, smiling before I said,  
“I’m Alina, you can call me Ali, and I am a special education teacher.” I heard someone mutter, ‘that’s brave’ from somewhere on my right, and I looked expectantly at the next person.  
“Well, that’s all the information you have before picking teams. In this bag, there are eighteen black rocks, one purple rock, and one orange rock. Draw a rock, hold it in your palm, and when I say ‘reveal,’ you will open your hand and show us your rock. The people who pick the colored rocks will pick the teams. Alright, everyone, pick your rocks.” He held the bag out to each contestant in turn; when he held it out to me, I whispered, “thank you” before closing my fingers around a rock. I pulled it out slowly and held it in my fist. 

Finally, all twenty of us had rocks in our fists, our arms outstretched, tense with anticipation.  
“Reveal!” Jeff called, and twenty hands opened like flowers blossoming: Eric, a large burly firefighter with a New York accent, drew the orange rock, while Candace, rocking dreadlocks, drew the purple one.  
“Eric and Candace, take a spot on your team mats. Candace, since you won the rock-paper-scissors, you will pick first. You must pick a male, Eric will pick a female. Then whoever you pick will make the next selection. Everyone understand?” He gazes sharply around, and we all nod.Candace puts her hands on her hips, surveying the eighteen of us with apprehension. She points to a bald man standing to my left.  
“Terry” he reiterates, and stomps off toward the purple mat.

Eric looks almost bored as he points to a hot young women at the end of the line and beckons her over by crooking his finger. She squeals and jumps like a cheerleader and I roll my eyes.  
Terry picks Maggie, a retired art teacher whose muscular arms would suggest that she could take on anyone, despite her age. The hotyoung cheerleader, Marissa, picks José, a very attractive Hispanic man, who replies “gracias” when she selects him. Maggie picks Tom, José picks Kari, and around and around it goes until the only people left are myself and a twenty-something guy named Dakota, who introduced himself as a “website moderator” which I read as ‘internet troll.’ He was picked because the orange team picked a female last time and they had to take him, and as he walked away, he teased, “guess you’re stuck on the short bus all by yourself!”  
“That was super disrespectful,” I reply cooly, before walking over to join the purple team.  
“Ali, how does that make you feel?” Jeff asks probingly.  
“Dakota’s comment or being picked last?” I retort haughtily, crossing my arms.  
“I don’t mind being picked last, but Dakota insulting me and my profession is uncalled for.”  
“Dakota?” Jeff probes, with such a teacher-worthy stare that my heart swells.  
He mutters, “sorry” without meeting my eye, shuffling backwards and hiding behind bigger players. 

Jeff clasps his hands together, looking ecstatic.  
“Alright, time for your first challenge!” We all stare, open-mouthed, as we were not expecting to participate in a challenge right away. “Down this beach is a section of sand where your tribe essentials are buried. You will run down the beach, stop at the flag until the whole team is there, and then start digging. You are looking for a large trunk, which contains the map to your beach, machete, pot, and ration of rice. Then you must work together to carry the trunk back here. The first team to come back with their trunk will win an additional bag of beans and corn. Worth playing for?” We obediently nod, and the athletic ones in the group bounce on the balls of their feet in anticipation of a sprint down the beach. 

“Survivors ready? GO!” Sand flies as twenty people take off sprinting down the beach. I hug the tide, preferring the packed damp sand to the loose sand further inland. Looking around, I am pleased to see that I am not in the back, despite not being a runner. Izzy, the swimsuit model, is struggling. She plants her foot in especially loose sand, and I watch as her ankle rolls and she falls to the ground with a frustrated cry. “Ugh!” she yells, trying to push herself to standing and collapsing again when the ankle won’t support her weight. I stop mid-stride, looking at how many members of the other team were already within spitting distance of the flag. Gritting my teeth, I jog back to where Izzy is limping through the sand and crouch. 

“Get on,” I instruct, and gesture to my back. She swings on leg over my hip, wraps her arms around my neck, and hoists herself into a piggy-back. I take off, slower this time, determined not to be last and get off to a bad start on the first day.  
“Would you look at that! Alina is carrying Izzy as she runs down the beach. That’s a Survivor first!” I get to the sandpit and dump Izzy down, as Jeff shouts “Purple team, you’re good. Dig!” and we leap into the hot sand, sending it every which direction as we claw and scoop, desperate to come into contact with the hard edge of the trunk. I reach frantically, shooting my hands into the sand in every direction.

“Fuck!” Pain shoots through my finger as my hand rams into something hard.  
“Found the trunk, guys,” I spit through gritted teeth, pushing sand out of the way with my legs as Terry comes over and pulls the trunk free from its sandy entrapment in one smooth motion.  
“Let’s go!” He shouts, pulling the trunk. Charles appears out of nowhere to help him, and I grab Izzy and swing her aggressively onto my back, crying aloud as my injured finger is jostled by her wrapping legs.  
“Come on, guys. MOVE IT.” Out of the corner of my eye, I see that orange team also has their trunk, and with near military precision they have two people on each side of the heavy thing, running in time as they pant together “right, left, right, left.” I spit and close my eyes, pushing myself to dig in and run harder.  
“We are neck-in-neck! Your whole team has to get back to the mat… Purple has it! By a body-length, purple team beat orange team to their mat, and wins the extra food!”  
“FUCK YEAH THAT’S WHAT I’M TALKIN ‘BOUT” shouts Candace in a throaty voice, clapping me hard on the back.  
“Purple team, congratulations. Your team wins the extra bag of food.” He hands a burlap sack to Candace, then looks around. “What a challenge! Right off the bat, Izzy twists an ankle and gets a piggyback ride to and from the sandpit, Alina jams her finger while digging for the trunk, Dakota breaks his glasses—” 

At the mention of my finger, I look down, and do a double-take. I didn’t just jam my finger, but somehow pushed it out of the socket. My middle finger was jutting out about fifteen degrees past its normal axis and was crossing over my third finger.  
“Uhhhh,” I mutter, my mouth dry, “Jeff? I didn’t jam my finger, I think I dislocated it.” Jeff stops whatever he was saying, and jogs over. He looks at my hand, and blinks rapidly.  
“Medical? Can we get medical over here, please?”  
“You okay? You need to sit?” His concerned face appears close to mine, his hand suddenly on my shoulder. I breathe deeply.  
“I’m good. Just a finger.” He chuckles nervously as the Survivor medical team comes up to my side.  
“You’re in good hands here, Ali, with Dr. Aaron and his team.” Dr. Aaron holds my wrist tenderly in one hand while pulling on the displaced finger with the other. I inhale sharply, and tense up. 

“Your third finger, here, has been pulled out of the metacarpal-phalangeal joint, but the swelling and coloring do not indicate fracturing. I’m going to provide a little traction by pulling it and it should slip back into the joint. It will hurt, though.” I nod gravely. Jeff, such a gentleman, holds my other hand.  
“You can squeeze my hand when it hurts.”  
While I am distracted looking at Jeff, Dr. Aaron pulls on my finger and I hear a slight “pop” as it slides back into place. A sharp burst of pain that has me squeezing the blood out of Jeff’s hand is followed by sweet relief as my body returns to its normal state. I release Jeff’s hand and flex my injured hand experimentally. Dr. Aaron tapes my middle finger to my ring finger, “for stability” he explains, “just until the initial inflammation goes down, which should be in the next 48 hours.”  
“Just a few hours in and already we have people losing fingers!” Jeff announces, holding up the hand he volunteered for me to hold—now drained of color.  
“Ali almost took mine off as hers was being reset!” A wave of relieved-sounding laughter echoed through the restless survivors, and we quiet quickly as Jeff announces,  
“Medical is going to check out Izzy’s ankle, but orange team, you can take your trunk and head out to find your camp. See you at the next challenge!” They heave their heavy trunk and walk in the direction we had been running earlier, sandy and sweaty and looking as battle-hardened as veterans.Dr. Aaron and his team squat in the sand next to the petite figure of Izzy, gingerly probing her ankle and rotating her foot to assess the extent of the injury. Probst checks in with Dr. Aaron, ascertains that the injury will not require medical evac, then turns to the rest of the team. 

“Hopefully these will be the worst of the injuries! It does not look like either of your injured team members are in any danger of medical evacuation, so once medical patches Izzy up, you guys will be good to go find your camp!” He turns and walks by me, brushing so lightly against my side that it might have been an accident, had he not whispered, “you good?” I nod, and he smiles, clapping me on the back. His hand lingers there.


	2. Tastes Worse Coming Back Up

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Descriptions of someone throwing up. Do not read if you're squeamish.

“Welcome! Grab a seat, guys! Immunity idol is back up for grabs…” Jeff launches into his recited speech as the crew of sixteen tread into the challenge arena, which resembled a rustic outdoor dining hall. I groaned, knowing from all my binge-watching of Survivor that this could only mean on thing.

“I know you have been going on about a week without food, so I scrounged up some food for you—if you can stomach it.” With a theatrical flourish, Jeff whips a woven basket cover from the table and reveals a decorative platter underneath, with large palm frond decorations and two dozen wriggling things. 

“Rules of the game: first person who refuses to eat loses immunity for their tribe. If the tribes tie, we move into a tie-breaker round. Everyone grab a grub and put in on your plate. Bon appetit!” Obediently, we pass the platter, each person removing a fat, wriggling grub and examining it with interest and disgust. 

“Eww. We have to eat these???” Across the table from me, Marissa looks absolutely revolted as she pushes the larvae around on the platter, trying to ascertain which one is the smallest.

“For the tribe, babe. Do it for the tribe. We lost the last challenge—we can’t lose this one!” Eric puts his arm around Marissa’s petite frame and squeezes her reassuringly. Ugh. Island romance. Almost makes me sicker than the wriggling larvae in front of me. 

“Survivors ready? EAT!” The first two grab the larvae and pop them in their mouths like M&Ms, barely chewing, and then stick their tongues out to show Jeff that they did, in fact, swallow the whole thing. I shudder involuntarily. The movement catches Jeff’s eye, and he shoots me a sly grin. I grimace. When it’s my turn, I hold the grub in the my left hand and plug my nose with my right; in rapid succession, I bite the head off, pop the headless grub in my mouth, chew three times, and swallow, gagging slightly. 

“Come on, girl! Get it down!”

“Get it down, Aly. It does not count if you spit it back up!” I glare at Jeff as I swallow hard and fight to keep the bug down. It tastes like buttery mushrooms—that have been left rotting in the sun. I open my mouth to show Jeff that I did, indeed, swallow the damn thing, and then rapidly take a swig of water and spit out the sludge in my mouth. 

“You’re good.” My duty is done. I cheer harder now as I know how tough this challenge is, even though just a few hours earlier, I would have given almost anything for something to eat. 

“Great. Well, I kind of anticipated that you might enjoy this feast, so there is a tie-breaker round. Each team will get to pick one person from the opposing team to participate in this sudden-death round.”

“Ugh, bad choice of words, Jeff.” Candace rolls her eyes, and Jeff chuckles. I look down the bench opposite, whispering to my left and right “Marissa, guys. Let’s go with Marissa.” They nod in agreement. From the other side of the table, I hear more heated debate.  
“Let’s pick Izzy. She’s tiny!”  
“Naw dude. Did you see her devour that grub? Chick enjoyed it too much if you ask me.”  
“No one asked you.”  
“Let’s pick Aly. She almost hurled the last time!” I don’t need to look up to know it was Dakota’s suggestion—he had been out for me since day 1. I composed my face into what I hoped was a no-nonsense warrior expression, because on the inside, I still felt the first round threatening to make a reappearance, and I knew it would taste even worse coming up.

“Pahtu, who is your pick from Ombati tribe?”  
“Marissa.” Eric gives her a quick kiss on the cheek. Bug breath, I think. Gross.  
“Ombati, who is your pick from Pahtu tribe?” Dakota grins evilly down the table as he replies “Aly.”  
“Ladies, if you will come join me down here please.” I push myself from the table with as much confidence as I can muster and walk up the table to where Probst is waiting. Candace gives me a playful smack on the butt and hollers, “get it, girl! Get it down.”  
I turn and give her a winning smile, then glare righteously at Dakota. Marisa looks pale. 

“Alright ladies, consider this your happy hour.” He reaches under the table and pulls out a battery operated blender, full of unknown but definitely disgusting jungle delicacies.  
“In here, we have some pickled eel, giant cockroaches—”  
“Ugh, Jeff. Do you have to tell us? I don’t want to know!” Marisa looks a little green.  
“You don’t want to know?” Marisa shakes her head vigorously, I give a noncommittal shrug.  
“Fine by me. I’ll just blend this up…” rrrrrRRRRRRRrrrrrrRRRRR  
He pours the thick, mucous-y liquid into two glasses, then reaches back under the table, pulls out a small wooden bowl, and plops something round on top of each disgusting concoction.  
“Fish eyes! The cherry on top.” Jeff exuberantly passes the glasses to Marissa and myself.  
“First one to finish and show me a clean mouth wins immunity for their team. Got it?” I nod. Marisa squeaks in acknowledgement.  
“YOU GOT THIS BABY. YOU CAN TAKE IT.” Eric shouts and pounds on the table.  
“Survivors ready?” Marisa and I take the glasses. Again, I hold the glass in one hand and plug my nose with the other.  
“Cheers! And go!” I raise the glass to my mouth and chug. Even with my nose plugged, it is revolting. It tastes like fish market and vinegar and fresh dog shit, and the texture is gristly and slimy, getting caught in my dry throat.  
“Marissa going slow and steady. Aly chugging it down.”  
“Yeah! Come on ALY!!! You can do it!”  
I can feel cockroach legs stuck in my teeth. I gag. I hear Marissa gagging and retching as well.  
“Gotta keep it down!”  
“Marissa, baby! Come on, you got this!”  
After three swallows, I have finished off the glass. Too late. Marisa squeaks “Jeff, Jeff!” and opens her mouth. Jeff looks and then sees something remaining in her glass.  
“No! You left the fish eye in the glass.” This is my opening. I swallow hard and open my mouth.  
“Aly does it! That is a win! Pahtu wins immunity!” I feel hands clapping me on the back and shoulder. My hands are clutching my stomach. Jeff grabs the carved totem pole idol and hands it to Candace, who beams and tries to pass it to me. I wave it off, concentrating hard on keeping the revolting shake down. Jeff stands next to me, arm around me and the team, as he announces  
“Pahtu, congratulations. Once again, immunity is yours. No tribal council tonight, nobody going home from Pahtu. Eric, Marissa, Dakota, Pete, Maureen, José, Sal, and Lin-Lin, after eleven days, one of you will be voted out at tonight’s Tribal Council. Grab your stuff, head back to camp, I’ll see you tonight at Tribal.” Eric, propping up Marissa, grabs their two woven bags and leads the dejected team out of the arena. Candace grabs me in a side hug, squealing.  
“Way to go, girl! I thought for sure Marissa had it, but you pulled it out! Pah-TUUUUUU!”  
This had become our team’s battle cry, so Candace’s cry was echoed by our tribal members with a resounding “Pah-TUUUUUU!” I opened my mouth to join in, and immediately I felt my stomach constrict and I knew what was coming. My throat makes a noise like ‘Huw-ugnh,’ as my gut constricts and I double-over.  
“Aly? You okay?” Jeff asks in a worried tone, reaching for my upper arm.  
“Huh—unghgwunf” I respond, retching out of my mouth and nose, splattering myself and Jeff with partially-digested eel and cockroach smoothie. “Ooh! That nasty!” Candace yells, stepping out of the splatter zone.  
I wipe my mouth on the back of my hand, and start to apologize to Jeff for blowing chunks all over him, when a second wave of nausea hits me and it comes out again. The bile and smoothie remains sting my throat, and I seem to have lost all control, as though as invisible fist is wringing out my stomach.  
‘Hu-blaeggh’ I retch again, doubling over and putting my hands on my knees to keep myself from falling face-first in the much. Someone’s hand is on my back.  
“Medical! Can we get medical over here?”  
“Damn, girl. Where you been keeping all that?” Ryan’s voice is both disgusted and amused.  
It comes again. The amount is less each time, but the gut contractions are just as strong. I heave again and again, bringing up just the smallest amount of pungent liquid, and then collapse on all fours with dry heaves.  
An Australian accent I recognize as belonging to Dr. Aaron says, “step aside, please. Everyone make some room.” He squats next to me, completely unperturbed by the puddle of putrid sick.  
“Aly. Aly. You okay, love?” I feel his hand on my back as I continue heaving, resting just inches from the ground on my knees and elbows, my abdomen constricting every few seconds. Bits of vomit sting the insides of my nose and throat, my eyes are streaming, and the retching has me breathless—as I am heaving and trying to take in a breath, I keep inhaling the expelled material and choking.  
A few sets of hands pull me upward, and I allow myself to be pivoted away from the disgusting patch of sand and set against a wide tree. Someone wipes my face with a wet cloth, which is a huge relief, and then places an emesis bag in front of my cracked lips. My torso constricts again and I heave, bringing up something small and completely undigested—the damn fish eye. I take a small breath, tensing, waiting for the next bout of vomiting to happen. When it doesn’t come up again, I take another small breath, and then a bigger one.  
“Good, Aly. Good deep breaths. Can you tell me what happened?” He pulls a stethoscope from somewhere and starts listening to my lungs, my heart, my stomach. I open my mouth to start speaking and heave again. I shake my head. Candace intervenes.  
“My girl has been fine until Jeff made that nasty-ass milkshake! She chugged that pickled eel and fish eye like a champ, and ten minutes later it all come up again. And then she just collapsed.”  
“Were you feeling sick before this challenge?” Slowly, I shake my head.  
“Are you having any pain?” I shake my head.  
“Are you having trouble breathing?” I hold my fingers slightly apart to indicate ‘just a little.’  
“Can someone hand me the oxygen, please?” He turns to receive the oxygen tank from someone outside my field of vision and then straps the mask over my face.  
“So, Dr. Aaron, tell me what is going on with Aly here. What are the immediate concerns?”  
“Jeff, because Aly has not been eating a whole lot out here, chugging that drink probably caused her stomach to expand too quickly, and it reacted by constricting and expelling it all out. It’s not life-threatening, but we’re concerned about dehydration. Can you try a sip of water for me, love?” He lifts the oxygen mask, raising a plastic bottle to my lips. I take a small sip, swish it around my mouth, and spit into the sand.  
“unghh” I moan, and take another sip. Almost instantly, my body rejects it, and I feel that familiar squeezing sensation around my middle as the tiny sip of water comes back up. Another set of dry heaves has me panting and gasping for breath as two sets of strong hands hold me upright and guide me back to a resting position against the tree.  
“Fuuuuuck.” I moan, leaning back against the tree.  
“Her color is really not good,” Jeff comments, one hand on my cheek as he peers into my clammy and disgusting face.  
“That’s what is concerning me. I’m worried that she is even more dehydrated now, and won’t be able to replenish what she has lost in order to stay in the game.”  
“I’m not…” I heave again. “I’m not… quitting over damn eel smoothie.” Jeff gives my shoulder a squeeze.  
“Well, we have to get fluids into you somehow, love. If you can’t keep water down, the only option is intravenous fluid. If you tolerate that, we’ll think about letting you continue in the game.” I nod to show I’m on board.  
“Pahtu tribe, we will stay here and continue to monitor Alyina’s condition.You guys take the idol and head back to camp. No tribal council tonight. Hopefully no one going home…” he trails off, looking sideways at me.  
“Feel better, girl. You killed it in the challenge. Hopefully it won’t kill you!” Candace hugs me from above, and I feel a few other hands patting me reassuringly.  
“Feel better, Al,” Tom murmurs, the only person beside my dad who can call me that and get away with it. I wave to my teammates and then offer my arm to Dr. Aaron. He wraps an elastic around my nonexistent biceps and feels around the crook of my arm.  
“Little poke, love. Just a pinch,” Dr. Aaron reiterates, sliding a hollow needle into the crook of my elbow. “IV, please?” One of his assistants hands him IV tubing, which he twists onto the tube extending from my arm. He tapes it in place, and hangs the IV bag from a low tree branch above my head.  
“There. Now we wait. If you tolerate the IV and your color returns, with no more vomiting, then you can return to camp. If you do not improve even with the IV, then we will consider med-evac. Understand?” I nod. The sudden bout of vomiting has depleted me more the recent physical challenge. and I lean against the tree, take deep breaths, and close my eyes. I can still smell the rotten eel, and the smell threatens to bring up whatever is left. Moaning and wrinkling my nose, I turn my head away from the smell. Jeff reaches for the blue emesis bag.  
“Aly, you need this?” I shake my head slowly.  
“No…. just the smell,” I moan pathetically.  
Jeff hops up and walks back to the table set up from the immunity challenge. He covers the blender and then kicks some sand over the rancid puddle. I smile weakly to show my appreciation, and Jeff shoots me a winning grin. He comes back over to squat next to me, while I close my eyes and lean against the tree again.  
“So, doc, fill me in on what’s going on with Aly here.” I tune this out, because I already know what’s going on and obviously this explanation is for the viewers watching at home.  
“Well, Jeff, Alyina’s stomach has shrunk due to the lack of food, and when she chugged that—ugh—smoothie, it forced her stomach to expand so quickly that in order to protect itself, the stomach constricted and expelled the contents; and, as you can see, once she got started, it was almost impossible to stop. The issue with that much vomiting is that it throws off the body’s electrolyte balance—that is, the sodium and potassium and calcium that the body needs in order to function. If those are not replaced quickly, the body can start to shut down in order to conserve what it has remaining. So what we’re doing is rehydrating Aly with an intravenous saline solution—basically water and salt—to restore her bodies’ natural electrolyte balance and keep her in the game.”  
“Just to be clear, Aly is not being pulled from the game?”  
“Not at the moment. We’ll continue to monitor her condition, but it seems as though this was just a bad reaction to the demands of the challenge.”  
Dr. Aaron stands and adjusts the IV tubing, before walking over to consult with his medical team. Jeff sits next to me, gently rubbing my arm. “How ya doing, Aly?” I shrug and turn my head to the side to face him. The recent loss of so much fluid, coupled with the equivalent of extreme abdominal exercises, has left me spent. I can barely keep my eyes open. I long to fall onto Jeff’s shoulder and sleep for days.  
I must have dozed for a minute or at least been daydreaming, because abruptly, I feel hands on my shoulders and checking my pulse, and a familiar Australian accent saying my name.  
“Aly, you still with us?” I open my eyes and blink quickly, disoriented. I’m sitting against a wide palm tree in my sand-and-now-vomit-covered swimsuit with an IV in my arm, and the handsome faces of Dr. Aaron and Jeff are staring into my face with concern. I nod my head.  
“Yeah… I’m just wiped out,” I reach up and wipe my face, then shift how I’m sitting when I realize that one foot is falling asleep. The motion engages me core just enough for me to realize how sore I am after my recent bouts of puking, and I hold my middle tenderly.  
“Need the basin?”  
“No, I’m just… sore! Like I just did a plank challenge…” This solicits some laughter from my handsome audience.  
“Can I try some water again? My mouth tastes like…” I trail off and gesture toward the immunity challenge and the disgusting remains of my digestive tract. Jeff pulls out a fresh water bottle and hands it to me. I raise it gingerly to my lips, take a small sip and bravely swallow. No gastrointestinal pyrotechnics. I take another sip with more confidence.  
“That is an excellent sign, Aly. And your color is back to normal, so I am going to disconnect the IV now. You’ve pretty much emptied the bag.”  
“So Aly is not being pulled from the game?”  
“No. I think the IV helped rehydrate her, and she is keeping water down, so I feel comfortable letting her return to camp and the game.” He swiftly disconnects the IV tubing, readies some gauze and tape, and pulls the needle from my arm. He presses the gauze onto the spot and helps me lift my arm above my head.  
“Hold that for a minute, please, and then I’ll wrap it.” I do so, and he looks at me strictly.  
“Aly, it’s not that I don’t enjoy your company, but I really hope I don’t see you again. First the finger, now this…” he shakes his head, tutting disapprovingly but smiling at the same time, and a minute later, satisfied that the area is not still bleeding, he wraps some elastic tape around the bandage, with instructions to remove it in a few hours. Dr. Aaron stands and helps pull me to me feet. After sitting for so long, I sway unsteadily, but Jeff and Dr. Aaron each have an arm and after adjusting to being horizontal, I feel solid.  
“How are you feeling, Aly?”  
“Relieved, but still depleted.”  
Dr. Aaron pulls out a blood pressure cuff and stethoscope, takes my blood pressure, and then nods. “Vitals are borderline low, but okay, considering the harsh conditions. You’re cleared to return to the game.”  
“Boat’s waiting to take you back to camp,” Jeff explains, holding on to my arm and guiding me out of the clearing and toward the beach. “We won’t make you canoe back by yourself!” He jokes as he walks me down the beach to where a motorized raft is waiting. A cameraman helps me into the boat, with the smallest wrinkle of his nose, which was polite of him, as I know how badly I smell. Jeff’s hand in the small of my back keeps me from toppling backwards, and then he climbs into the boat after me. The motor starts, and we zip across the cerulean waves to another island where Pahtu camp is located.  
“I’m glad you’re okay,” Jeff murmurs so only I can hear.”That was really scary for a minute.”  
I look up into his concerned face, nodding in agreement. “Thanks for staying by me, and sorry for, um, you know!” I gesture in the general direction of his torso, my face flush from embarrassment, and I turn away. He reaches for my hand, giving it a small squeeze, and whispers, “a smelly shirt is a small price to pay for knowing you’re okay.” The cameras, I notice, are thankfully not capturing this heartfelt moment.


	3. Eyes the color of calm seas

CHAPTER 3

I had lasted thirty-two days in Survivor, and I had the taste of victory in my mouth. Despite the fatigue, constant hunger, battle scars, and a rather unfortunate bout of vomiting, I felt emboldened by my journey on Survivor and as confident as I could be with seven days remaining in the game. My alliance with Jill, Candace, and Ryan was strong; I had a hidden immunity idol, and I had been on two rewards recently so I was well-fueled and well-rested for the nearing immunity challenge. Basically, I was feeling invincible—or as invincible as one can be in a game for a million dollars where every competitor wants you out. 

“How ya feelin, girl?” Jill sidled up to me, her southern drawl a welcome sound to me. I shrug.  
“Pretty good, but still nervous. I mean, it’s still a game, and I don’t want to feel too confident and get a false sense of security this close to the end. Ya know?”  
“Yeah, hun. I get it. Would suck to get this close and then lose it all.” We sit in the sand, the waves lapping at our feet. It was peaceful, almost picture-perfect with the clean sand, waving palms, and cerulean oceans—but it felt like a prison at this point. I was holding out hope for the loved one visit, wishing and wondering if my father would be healthy enough to make the journey. Candace stomps down the beach and showers me with sand as she plops down next to me. 

“Okay this actually sucks.” We collectively sigh, feeling the feelings of both pride and desolation, camaraderie and isolation, willful determination and an overwhelming longing to throw in the towel for a pizza and a hot shower.  
“I hope the loved one visit is tomorrow…” I sigh wistfully, “I can’t keep going without knowing how my family is doing. And after all the shit that happened with Dakota, I just need people who will stand by me no matter what.” I lean my head over on Candace’s shoulder, and she leans her head on top of my own. Tears stream down my face and I wonder if she feels the same.  
“Yeah girl. I feel you.”  
“I know this is an individual game, but if it comes down to voting you out, I don’t think I could do it. You’ve been my rock out here.”  
“Girl, you know I got you. It’s you and me to the end, boo.” I know that it’s not wise to be openly paired off in this game, but I just don’t care. I need Candace to get through the last week, and I know that she feels the same way. We sit until the tide creeps up to our shorts and we have to collect our torches for tribal council. 

****************

“Well that sucked,” I grumbled as we marched back into camp, torches nearly dragging on the ground due to sheer exhaustion. Dakota had finally been voted out, but not before dragging me through the mud, calling my character into question and calling me a lying, manipulative feminist bitch—in not as many words. I was furious and reeling from the metaphorical blow. I could not stand around in the darkness and make nice with the remaining six people, so I walked around to collect firewood and try to revive the fire again. Collecting the firewood allows me to collect my thoughts, and by the time I have the wood stacked and the coconut husk smoking, I feel neutral. I’m still exhausted, but I have my sights set on making it to the final tribal council and the million dollars; I’m angry at the way Jeff and the production team responded when Dakota harassed me, but by staying in this game, I am showing women all over the world that they do not have to be victims. I am strong. I am okay. I can survive.

With the fire crackling to life and the angry whispers dying down, I sit near the fire and wait for the others to join me. The talking is done. The arguing has ceased. We are all feeling defeated and still close to victory, and we do not know how to feel so many extremes at once. No one says a word, but after half an hour of silence, we retreat to our sleeping positions. I lay awake for what feels like hours, listening to the snores of my fellow survivors, and allow my mind to drift: it settles on Jeff Probst. 

Cliché, I know. Every Survivor fan has some mild crush on Probst. His sharp jawline, raw honesty, chiseled forearms, and winning smile have melted hearts of contestants and fans alike, but I couldn’t suppress the feeling that he and I had a connection. His gaze lingered on me the first day, and he held my hand as medical relocated my finger. He checked on me frequently after that, touching my shoulder and back more than the situation warranted, perhaps. We exchanged smiles, lingering glances at challenges and tribal council, and I could not get him out of my head. Long sleepless nights were spent imagining all kinds of situations featuring myself and Probst, perhaps a reward featuring a helicopter tour and then a romantic tropical island dinner with everyone’s favorite reality TV host, which might lead to… anything. These daydreams got me through dreary days filled with torrential rain, when we all huddled miserably in the shelter, wringing out our one blanket and occasionally voicing hopeful comments that ‘maybe the rain is lessening.’

My daydreams turned into actual dreams, and I do not realize that I actually fell asleep until I feel someone shaking me awake.  
“Aly? It’s Probst.” I rouse slowly, pulling my Buff down from my face, and rub my sleepy eyes. I feel dazed. I blink again and sit up groggily. Sure enough, Jeff is crouched next to our bamboo platform and there is a boat bobbing in the surf down the beach.   
“Aly, can you come with me for a moment?” I nod mutely, accepting his proffered hand as I slide off the bamboo, hugging my body tightly to ward off the chill.   
“Can we go down to the beach?” He asks quietly, and I allowed myself to be steered sleepily down to the beach where Candace and I have engaged in many strategic talks. We stop about ten feet from the surf, and I inhale deeply, wondering what on earth could bring Probst to camp this late at night.  
“I got a call from your family,” Jeff starts. 

I close my eyes, suddenly sick to my stomach. I think I know where this is going: my father had been battling stage four prostate cancer, and by the Grace of God, had gotten into a clinical trial that seemed to be shrinking the cancer and extending his life. When I was informed that I had been selected for this season of Survivor, I hesitated, not wanting to go halfway across the world and leave my sickly father. But by then, he had been in the clinical trial for six months and was showing signs of miraculous improvement. With his blessing, I accepted my role on Survivor. I went knowing that there was a small risk that the side effects of the new treatment could kill him while I was gone, so I talked to him at length, expressing all my love and gratitude, and holding him tightly as he whispered over and over again, “I’m so proud of you, Alyina-bean. I love you. Go have your adventure.”

“Apparently your father suffered a stroke as a result of the cancer treatment, and they were unable to dissolve the clot before it caused permanent damage. Your father was declared brain-dead. Your mother wanted to let you know before they removed life support.” I sat down, drawing my knees in close and feeling the reverberations of my pounding heart in the space between my torso and legs. I hear a rustling noise, and a minute later, Jeff’s windbreaker is wrapped around my shoulders. I do not move or make any acknowledgement. I just feel hollow. 

He sat next to me, not even pretending to maintain an appropriate amount of space between us. I drop my head down and let the tears fall, watching as they make tiny divets in the sand below. I cannot process Jeff’s news or how I feel about it.   
“The boat is waiting, if you want to go.” The words hang heavily in the air as I think about how to proceed. With eyes still streaming, I lift my head and turn to Jeff.   
“Would it be… I mean, could it be arranged… for me to call my mom? Say goodbye?” 

Jeff pondered this for a moment, before responding slowly, “this is unprecedented. I’ve never been in this situation before, so I’m not sure. Let me check in with our communications team. Do you want to wait here?” I nod, thinking that I probably couldn’t move even if I wanted to. He stands, brushing sand of his pants, and walks in the direction of the bobbing light on the catamaran, talking into his walkie-talkie. I drop my head back into my hands, blaming myself for putting my quest for a million dollars over my father’s life. An anxious spiral is filling my head; did he suffer? Did he realize what was happening? Was he alone? Did he think of me at all before his brain shut down? I clamp my hands over my ears as if trying to block out the anxious thoughts, and this is where Jeff finds me. 

I don’t realize that he is back from the boat until he pulls my hands away from my ears.   
“The communication and production team agreed that you can have ten minutes to call or video chat from the bush camp.” I have no idea what he means by ‘bush camp,’ but I allow myself to be guided numbly away from the beach. I think we are headed for the catamaran, but Jeff steers me in a different direction, down the beach and then inland again. I am barefoot, stumbling over roots and rocks, feeling like a small child as I traipse along behind Jeff, wearing his coat around my shoulders. Up a short incline, we reach a camouflaged shelter, a sort of Army-style tent made up of square canvas sides and vinyl windows rolled up. Jeff ducks through the door flap and we enter: inside are two cots, crates of video equipment, a large water cooler, and a chunky laptop wired up to all sorts of things. Jeff walked over to the computers, launched the internet browser, and brought up Skype. He pulled out a small camp stool, so I walked shakily over and sat, typing in my username and password with slow deliberation.

“I’ll give you the room,” he whispered quietly as he patted my shoulder, but I reached up with my opposite hand, covering his, and pleaded, “stay?” He nodded mutely and found another stool, sitting nearby but out of the camera frame. The familiar Skype tune sounded as I started the call with my mother, and less than a second later, she appeared, grainy and pixelated from the poor connection, but still real and comforting. 

“Alyina!” She cries in relief, holding her composure for only a few seconds before crumbling. “He’s gone, baby.” She mutters, looking as hollow as I felt. “He was here one minute, doing so well, and now he’s gone.” She dissolves into incoherent sobs. I cannot fathom this news, and I nod, fighting off my own tears and wondering what I can say that might bring even a slight bit of comfort to myself or my mother.

“I’m so sorry, mom. I’m sorry I can't be there.” She fumbles with the camera, and when it refocuses, it is showing my father in the hospital bed, intubated and wired to all sorts of machines. I cannot hold back the sobs now, and the tears flow freely down my face.  
“Dad, I love you so much. I’m sorry I wasn’t—n” I choke on the words, my guilt heavy in my stomach. Unseen by the camera, Jeff’s hand snakes behind my back and rubs it consolingly.   
“I’m sorry I couldn’t be there. I love you.” I sob harder now, and hear my mom doing the same. She keeps the camera trained on him, but I hear her voice: “I love you too, baby. I know you’re gonna win this thing. Your dad is so proud of you, and we’re all rooting for you. Keep fighting, baby. Eat more, okay? I love you.” She turns the camera around again and searches to find my eyes.

“You hear me, Aly? I love you. Fiercely.” I nod, swallow.  
“Love you too—m” and the video cuts off. The internet connection, tentative at best, finally gave up. I started at the error message blinking on the screen, before closing the internet browser and turning to Jeff.   
“Thank you… for letting me say goodbye.” He squeezes my hand and nods. Pulls me to my feet and holds me for a minute. I bury my head in his shoulder and sob openly, the guilt and the sadness and grief unleashing a reservoir, my whole body shaking and the tears flowing freely. Jeff wraps his strong arms around me and I sob into his chest, not caring that I am leaking tears and snot onto his perfectly pressed shirts. I am sobbing so much that I miss the critical question the first time he asks.

“Do you want to stay or go?” When I don’t provide a response right away, Jeff pushes back, holding me by the shoulders and looking into my leaky eyes.  
“Aly, if you want to go, we have the chopper on standby. Do you want to leave?”

This jolts me out of my reverie. My body-heaving sobs finally ebb into tiny hiccoughs, and I take a shaky breath, trying to wrap my head around this impossible decision.  
“My- my dad wanted me to go. He told me it was okay. I have to win this for him, Jeff. I’m st—” but I stop, my lips quivering. I can’t finish the sentence. Am I betraying my father’s memory by staying to finish the 39 days? He meets my eyes and nods, as though affirming my decision.   
“Then let’s get you back to camp.” I close my eyes, trying to calm the inner turmoil that threatens to envelop me. When I open my eyes again, Jeff’s face is inches from my own. I can see the flecks of blue and green in his eyes, the color of the Fujian ocean on a calm day—exactly the image I need to counter the stormy tides in my own eyes. 

His lips met mine with such tenderness that I felt my grief recede like the tide. He pulled away, looking into my eyes with eyes the color of calm seas, and asks, “okay?” I lean forward in response, seeking his lips with my own, and when they meet in the middle, I feel whole again. He kisses me tenderly and fiercely, chasing my tears away and pulling my focus from my own despair and grief to the prospect of hope and comfort. I don’t want this moment to end.


	4. Relinquish Control

CHAPTER 4

I clung to the cold buoy, refusing to relinquish control. This I could do. If my father could cling to a pain-filled, cancer-riddled life for months, I could hold on a few minutes longer. I could outlast my opponents and win immunity, securing my place in the final five and getting one step closer to winning than million dollars for my father’s funeral and a trip for my mom. Candace, Jill, Ryan, Eric, and Marissa were the other players remaining. Dakota had been voted out at the last tribal council, which overjoyed me to no end, and Marissa was only here because she was riding Eric’s coattails. With Dakota gone, I was in the majority alliance, although I suspected Ryan might be going around Jill and Candace and I to plot with the others. But I wasn’t too bothered. In the end, it is an individual game and we are all here to win.

The immunity challenge was on the ocean, and featured six survivors clinging to wooden posts atop floating buoys that rocked with the tide. There were a few small footrests, but mostly, we wrapped our arms and legs tightly around the posts, like upright sloths, and clung for dear life. The tide was low, the current weak between the islands, so the buoys weren’t rocking too much, but judging from the clouds that was about to change. Jeff had been hinting at a storm since the challenge started, and it seemed appropriate to have weather than matched my mood. 

Marissa, unsurprisingly, was the first one out. Once the light rain started, her lips turned blue. Girl had no body fat to speak of, and had been given a foil survival blanket by the medical team, lest she become hypothermic. My girl Candace was the next to drop. She was stubborn enough to hold on until the sun rose, but she cramped up and dropped off the post, splashing into the water below and howling as the muscle spasmed and finally released. After twenty minutes, Jill had slid down enough that she was nearly resting on the buoy. She finally let go and swam over to the floating dock where Jeff Probst stood supervising and MC-ing for the cameras. Ryan let go next, after shouting some words of encouragement to me, and then there were two. Me and Eric. Although Eric probably had a hundred pounds on me, he was ripped. Guy was a gym rat, when he wasn’t on duty as a firefighter, and he probably benched at least two times my body weight. Holding himself on this post was obviously not an issue. I could not match Eric’s strength, but I had something else fueling me: grief. 

After the news about my father’s stroke, I felt hollow inside. I briefly considered giving up, quitting Survivor, and going home to be with my family, but I thought about how I would feel—looking back—if I lost my father and my dream of competing on Survivor, and I decided to stick it out. The hollow feeling was like an insatiable hunger which would only be filled by winning. All of the regrets I had regarding time I had with my father, all of the things left unsaid, all of the experiences I shared with him and memories I had of him filled up the reservoir that had been depleted over the course of thirty-three days. I was doing this for myself, for my own healing, but I was also doing this for my father. To honor him. To memorialize him. And that allowed me hang on, arms and legs as numb as my soul, to an increasingly cold and wet post in the middle of a near-stormy sea. 

“Aly has not moved this whole time. After receiving devastating news from her family, she has something to prove being out here.” I can hear Jeff’s announcer voice echo across the waves, but it does not register with me. My body is numb now; like a corpse in rigor mortis, my muscles have locked into this position so tightly that a crowbar might be necessary to pry me off. 

“Eric’s physical strength is a huge advantage here, but you can see that thirty-three days out here is taking a toll. His arms are shaking. We are nearing forty minutes… who will be the next to drop? And who will win individual immunity, guaranteeing their spot in the final five?” I tune this out, focusing instead on the slow rhythmic pounding of the sea against the buoy. The rocking motion soothes me, igniting those primitive pathways created in my brain when my mother and father cradled and rocked me through the night.

My father. My father would never get to rock another baby. He would not get to meet his grandchildren (not that I had any children for him to hold, but my sister was four months pregnant with her first child). I mentally scold myself for falling down this rabbit-hole and focus instead on my breathing and the sound of the ocean and rain. Rain—how apropos. 

“One hour and fifteen minutes. That has got to be a Survivor record!” I think I can hear my teammates cheering me on, or yelling at me, but the roar of the ocean and the sound of raindrops falling around me keeps their volume muted. The rain increases in intensity, stinging my back and dropping my body temperature. My arms and legs are literally numb. I could not let go of the post even if I wanted to. My body hurts from the physical effort, and my soul hurts from the death of my father. Tears form in my eyes and fall down my cheeks, but I cannot distinguish them from the raindrops. I am crying. The sky is crying. Who knew that Survivor would be such an existential and spiritual experience?

“Aly.”  
“Aly.”  
“ALY. YO GIRL. You alive over there?”  
“ALYINA”

I blink and shake the rain from my eyes. Jeff and the other players are sitting in a motorized raft that the stalling right below my wooden post. The other players are hunched over, curled up around each other, teeth chattering and bodies shaking in the cold rain.   
“Eric dropped. You won individual immunity. You can slide down now.” I shake my head.   
“I’m n-n-numb, Jeff. I have no feeling in my hands or feet.” My teeth are chattering.  
“Well, I can’t climb up there to pry you off, so see if you can slide down a little bit at a time.” I nod and bring my focus into my hands. I slowly and painfully wiggle my fingers, feeling that pins-and-needle sensation as feeling returns. My fingertips are pruney and grey, like a cadaver. Suddenly, with the realization that my body is free, my legs release their death grip on the post and I slide down the post like a drunk Koala. Jeff straddles the raft and the edge of the buoy holding the post upright, and offers his arm to help me into the boat. I must have looked incapable of getting down myself, because a moment later, one of the production crew had climbed into the edge of the raft, wrapped his hands around my hip bones, and was pulling me backwards into the boat. Jeff peeled my hands from the post and helped guide my numb limbs into the boat. 

“Aly, frozen to the pole, wins individual immunity, although I don’t think she realizes it yet.”  
Jeff puts the immunity necklace around me, although I am too numb to notice. The crew member who pulled me off the buoy wraps one of those foil blankets around me, and I notice now that all of the players are wrapped up like foil burritos. Unaware of the weather until just moments ago, I had not realized that the ocean was now rollicking, sending three-to-five foot swells that splashed over the catamaran and drenched everyone in cold sea water. Marisa looked close to hypothermia, and Eric, who probably had close to two hundred pounds on her, didn't look much better.

“Alyina, safe at tribal council tonight, guaranteed a one-in-five shot at a million—“ but Jeff was cut off when the boat hit a particularly rough wave and he was knocked askew. A cameraman nearly lost a mic to the rough seas, and everyone sat a little lower in the boat after that.

As we motored closer to our beach, I could see a line of debris inland. Puzzled, I stared harder, trying to distinguish the shapes and shadows through the splattering rain.   
“Is that… our camp?” Eric muttered thickly. The foil blankets crinkled as six sign burritos emerge from their foil to look at the shore.  
“Holy. Fuck.” Candace chimes in, “our shelter, I think, is sprawled along the beach.”  
“I t-t-gold you guys we should have b-b-built it further back,” mutters Marisa ruefully—truthfully, that suggestion was the only helpful, team-centric advice she had offered all game. 

I just shake my head. What else could possibly go wrong in this game? Had we not paid our dues? Had I, personally and selfishly, not suffered enough? I wanted to scream out, ‘Survivor Gods, WHAT THE FUCK?’ but could not muster the energy. Instead I pulled my head into my foil wrapping—a turtle withdrawing into her shell. Jeff slipped a hand under the foil blanket and gave my leg a reassuring squeeze.

***

When we got back to what remained of our camp, we did nothing but stare in silence for a few moments at the wreckage. The stormy waves had come further up the sand than we anticipated and ruined our fire pit, eroded the base of our shelter, and scattered our belongings around. Marissa let out a tiny sob between shivers and sat in the sand, withdrawing into her blanket just as I had done on the boat. Eric, Candace, Ryan, Jill, and I walked solemnly up the beach, stooping every few feet to pull something from the wreckage—a pot, an extra shirt, a bowl carved from a coconut, a knife. As much as I wanted to sit in the sand next to Marissa and cry, I knew that we had to get some fire and shelter if we were going to warm up and survive the cold night, so I wrapped the foil blanket like a cape around my shoulders, tucking the corners under my swimsuit straps, and walked over to the trees that supported about half our shelter.

“I think…” I falter, trying to push away the spiraling anxious thoughts, and clear my throat to try again, “I think we can re-build our shelter if we take down the clothesline and use that rope to reinforce the two posts that were washed away.” The others murmur in agreement, and we get to work. Eric uses the machete to cut a notch in the bamboo, and then he and Ryan rest it against the tree, lashing it in place with the rope that Candace and I had taken from further inland. I walk about six feet away and start digging a pit in the sand, wondering how on earth we would start a fire with all the wetness around. Jill wordlessly passes me the large stones from our previous fire pit, and helps me encircle the new fire ring. 

“Damn, baby. You feel like ice.” Eric comes up noisily behind us, carrying the large foil burrito that is Marissa. He lays her in the newly resurrected shelter, tucking her foil blanket around her more securely, and laying his own foil wrapping on top of that. He crouches by the fire.  
“How goes the fire building?” I gesture wordlessly around us, indicating that everything is wet.  
“Maybe some of the really deep undergrowth isn’t too wet… I’ll see what I can scrounge up.” Jill departs as Ryan and Candace come back with their arms full of detritus from the storm. They wring the muddy water from our spare clothes and hang them on the posts of our shelter to dry out again, then set the cooking pot and assorted utensils on some of the stones encircling the nonexistent fire. Jill comes back about twenty minutes later with an armload of bamboo, coconut husk, and some dead vegetation from the jungle. I turn to Eric;

“Can you use the flint and machete to try to light some of this coconut husk? I’ll peel the bark from some of this wood and see if it’s dry enough underneath to catch fire.” Eric nods and retrieves the machete and flint from where they are lashed securely to our shelter. Though I have no love for Eric, he remains the best fire-starter on our tribe, and we desperately need a fire to warm up and cook some rice—if we have any left after the torrential rains. I reach into the woodpile and pull out a handful of fallen twigs and sticks. They feel damp to the touch, and do not immediately snap when I try to break them. I take the knife from the pot and scrape away the outermost layer of bark, revealing wood that feels slightly less damp. Eric’s face is screwed tightly in concentration as he scrapes the machete against the flint. It sparks promisingly, but the coconut husk isn’t catching fire. I use the knife to whittle away thin wood fibers from the twigs in my hand, and offer these to Eric. 

From over in the shelter, I hear a small moan and the rustle of foil blanket. Turning, I see Marissa’s head emerge from her reflective cocoon, her purple lips quaking as she shivers violently. I approach the shelter and sit down next to her. Although I usually find her vapid and vain, I am not willing to lose a teammate to medical evacuation—having so narrowly escaped it myself.   
“You don’t look good, Marissa. You feeling okay?”   
“J-j-just c-c-cold,” she mutters between chattering teeth. I reach over and feel her skin. It is cool and clammy, and when I pull one of her hands free from where it is tucked between her thighs, I can see her fingernails are nearly the color of her lips.  
“Eric, you got a fire yet? We need to get Marissa warmed up.” The tribe hears the panic in my voice and appears at my side in seconds. Jill, a nurse, climbs into the shelter and takes Marissa’s pulse. 

“Her pulse is weak. She’s dehydrated. Anyone’s canteen handy?” Someone passes a water bottle over, and Jill pours over a trickle over her wrist to check the temperature. Satisfied that it wasn’t too cold, she tips some water between Marissa’s purple lips, watching to make sure that she swallows without choking. “Th-thanks.” Marisa mutters, voice barely audible.   
We sit in near silence: the only noises coming from the flint and machete and the rustle of the foil blanket as Marissa rearranges in increasingly feeble attempts to keep warm. Jill checks her pulse every few minutes. The rest of us wait silently, either for the fire to roar to life or for some command from Jill regarding how to care for our frozen teammate. After ten minutes, Jill offers just that.

“We need to get her undressed. When someone is borderline hypothermic, keeping them in wet clothing is the worst thing. Who here is the warmest? We need one or two people to strip out of their wet clothes and lay next to her, under the foil blankets. This will trap your body heat and hopefully warm her up.” Without even pausing to think, I start to strip out of my wet swimsuit and pull my damp hair off my shoulders, wrapping my Buff around the tangles to keep them contained. Once naked, I climb onto the platform and cuddle up next to Marissa. She is still shivering and doesn’t seem to care that two of her tribemates—her least-favorite tribe mates, judging by the last tribal council votes—are now lying naked next to her. Candace is on her other side. One of the foil blankets is underneath us, and three more are put on top, tucked carefully in around the edges so that we’re lying like three little sausages in a foil packet. 

“Monitor her breathing,” Jill tells us matter-of-factly. “If her respiratory rate starts to decrease, let me know. Eric, how is that fire coming?” We can hear him blowing great gusts of air on the wet tinder, trying to breathe life into it.  
“He’s got a flame!” Ryan cries excitedly from a few yards away.   
“When you’ve got the fire, move the rocks close to it and see if they warm up at all. If they hold heat, we can wrap them in the foil and put them around the girls in the shelter.” She turns to Marissa,  
“Marissa, do you know where you are? Can you tell me what happened?” Her timid voice emerges from within the foil, halting with the added percussion of her chattering teeth.  
“F-f-Fuji. At c-c-camp. H-h-had a mutiny ch-ch-challenge. He-he-held a pot.” Her eyebrows furrow, and she shakes her head as though confused. “N-n-o. He-held… a …poster.” I notice that her chest is hardly moving, and I raise my head to make eye contact with Jill. She nods almost imperceptibly.  
“We need medical,” she confirms, and turns to looks directly at a cameraman lurking nearby. He radios in the call for medical, and Jill checks Marissa’s pulse again. Eric comes over, looking concerned. 

“What happened? Baby? What happened?” Jill puts a hand reassuringly on his shoulder.  
“Eric, I think she’s hypothermic from the challenge. Her body temperature has dropped after being exposed to the cold water and air, and since she has so little body fat, she has no insulation around her vital organs. Her body is restricting blood flow to her extremities in order to keep blood flowing to the brain and heart. She is exhibiting all the symptoms: shivering, drowsiness, slurred speech and mental confusion, slow pulse and breathing rate. Aly and Candace are trying to share their body heat, but since no one is really warm, there’s not a lot there. We need medical before this turns critical.” Eric sits at the foot of the shelter, rubbing Marissa’s legs through the foil wrappings.   
“Come on, Marissa. You can do this. We’ll get you warm again. You’re almost to the end.” His words are pleading, optimistic even, although the unspoken agreement is that Marissa will need to be med-evacked and will not make it to the end. There is nothing to do but lie there, praying and hoping that Marissa will be okay, while we wait for medical to arrive. 

After what seems like an eternity, we hear a motor boat approaching. Jill runs down the beach to meet the medical team and fill them in on Marissa’s condition. She talks frantically, explaining how her condition worsened after we got back to the beach, how her pulse and breathing slowed, how she struggled to answer questions about where she was and how she got there, how she did not show any improvement after shared body-heat intervention. I hear the familiar British accent of Dr. Aaron, cutting her off mid-sentence:

“Where is she now?”   
“In the shelter. We removed her wet clothing and sandwiched her between Aly and Candace, then wrapped them all in the foil emergency blankets.”  
“Good call. What were her vitals?”  
“I don’t have a watch out here, but I estimate her pulse was around 50 and her respirations 12. Fingernails and lips have a blue tint to them, and she demonstrated some expressive aphasia when I asked her where she was and what had happened. She said “mutiny” instead of “immunity” and then “pots” and “poster,” when describing holding onto the post during the challenge. 

The voices are right behind me, and a moment later, I see Jeff Probst, Dr. Aaron, and half a dozen medical team members coming into the camp. I make eye contact with Jeff and can see how worried he is. Dr. Aaron comes up to the shelter, pulling his stethoscope from around his neck and listening to Marissa’s chest.   
“Her respirations are shallow. Give me oxygen and an IV kit, please.” His team scrambles to pass him the equipment. Not wanting to be in the way, Candace and I move away from Marissa. I forget that I am naked until Jeff wordlessly passes me the foil blanket. Blushing furiously, I wrap it around myself and see Candace do the same.

“Marissa, can you hear me?” She nods and murmurs, fogging up the inside of the oxygen mask. “Your body temperature is borderline hypothermic, Marissa. We’re going to start a warm IV to bring your blood pressure and core temperature up. Do you understand?” She nods, eyes filling with tears, and she looks frantically around for Eric, who moves into her line of sight and then goes to sit by her head, stroking her hair. One of Dr. Aaron’s assistants comes over with some wool blankets and covers Marissa, leaving one arm exposed for IV access. Dr. Aaron starts the IV quickly and tucks the arm under the blanket as well. Without even asking for it, someone hands him a thermometer, and he clicks it into Marissa’s ear. Seconds later, it beeps, and he reads the number off the display.   
“95.9. 90-95 is considered hypothermic, so she’s right on the cusp.” Jeff has been quiet this whole time, standing next to me with one arm wrapped inconspicuously around my shoulders. At this proclamation, he steps up to squat next to Dr. Aaron, looking concernedly at Marissa.

“So fill me in here, doc.”  
Dr. Aaron repeats almost verbatim what Jill told Eric earlier, hastily explaining that her body is unable to sustain its systems at this temperature, and requesting immediate evacuation to a hospital where she can be stabilized. Jeff snaps upwards, turning to address the crew.  
“Alright, we’re bringing the chopper in! Clear the beach!” There is a frantic scramble of activity as Dr. Aaron gets Marissa ready for transport. They roll her onto her side, slide a stretcher under her slight frame, and glide the whole setup carefully from the shelter. Eric follows, carrying the oxygen and the IV bag. Marissa’s eyes are half-closed, but there are tear tracks down her pale cheeks. Candace, Jill, and I all have tears streaming down our cheeks too. Although we never had a deep relationship with Marissa, her evacuation reminds us of our own morality and how, despite our progress in this game, we are always at the mercy of Mother Nature, and she is relentless. We give her awkward hugs, wishing her a full recovery, and wave her off as she is loaded into the helicopter, along with Dr. Aaron. Eric looks half ready to climb in after her, but shouts instead, “I’m gonna win this for you, baby!” as the blades spin faster and faster, and the helicopter takes off.


	5. Something with Jeff

CHAPTER FIVE  
“Come on in, guys!” Jeff stands in his usual power pose, wearing a sage-green shirt that compliments his eyes nicely. He surveys our rag-tag group of Survivors, all looking extremely tired and in desperate need of some personal hygiene.

“Welcome to today’s reward challenge! For today’s challenge, you will swim out to your colored buoy, dive down and untie a key ring. You will swim back to shore, find your treasure chest, and find the right key to open it. Inside is a bag of letter tiles. First person to solve the word puzzle wins reward! Wanna know what you’re playing for?” We nod hungrily, I even lick my lips, ready for a full belly and maybe a shower or a beautiful getaway. 

“The puzzle will spell out the reward for you, so I don’t want to spoil it. But I will lead with this: you will get inside information on the next challenge, which will give you A HUGE advantage in this game! You will then get a chance to shower and sleep in a real bed. Worth playing for?” I swear he looks sideways at me when he says this.   
Candace turns to me and mouths, ‘shower!’ and I grin in agreement. After almost a month out here, we are all filthy, giving new meaning to the phrase “au natural.”  
“Alright, we’ll draw for spots.” He passes around a bag, and we each take a colored rock. Mine is red. Candace draws purple, Ryan has green, Eric has blue, and Jill draws yellow. We spread out to claim our spots on the starting mats.

“Survivors ready?” Jeff voice calls out, we all nod. “GO!” Five desperate contestants sprint through hot sand, spraying it in every direction, as we frantically try to reach the ocean. My eyes are closed against the spraying sand, but I feel the sand harden underneath my feet and know I must be close to the ocean. I open my eyes as I wade in ankle-deep, check my trajectory, and then dive into the rolling surf. The swim is maybe 50 meters (thank you, years of swim team), and I took maybe two breaths the whole time. I reach my buoy, take a deep breath, and dive below. The saltwater stings my eyes when I try to open them under the water, so I crawl my hands down the slippery chain until I find the carabiner where the key-ring is tethered. My lungs are burning now, the pressure in my ears becoming more and more painful. I can’t get the carabiner to release from the chain…

I surface, gasping for air. Looking around, I see that Ryan is already swimming back, Eric is still slowly paddling out here, and Candace is diving under. Jill must be under the water somewhere. I take another deep breath, plunge down, and find the carabiner. This time, I click it open, release the keyring, stuff it in the front of my swimsuit, and start swimming freestyle back to the beach. I stop only when my arms start scraping the sand below me, and I push myself upright and into the sand. 

The chest is up the beach, which I now realize is a slight incline, and it feels much steeper than it is after sprinting 100 meters on very little fuel. I reach my trunk and panic for a moment when I don’t feel the keys in my hand.  
“Alyina is the second person to her trunk, but she doesn’t seem to have her key ring!” I stop, and remember that I stuffed the ring in my swimsuit. I grin and with no modesty in front of the camera crew, I reach between my boobs and fish the key ring out of my speedo. 

“Well, that’s one way to carry them! Candace now back to her chest, Jill not far behind. Marisa still diving for her key ring.” I fumble with the keys for a minute, examining each one. I pick a brass one whose shape most closely resembles the lock, and to my enormous surprise, the lock clicks open. Inside, there is a red sack, reminding me of the Santa’s toy bag. I hoist it out of the trunk—it’s heavier than expected—and drag it up to the puzzle table near my starting mat. I tune out Jeff’s commentary, trying to ignore the water sloshing around my ears and the sand rubbing uncomfortably in the nether-regions of my swimsuit, and start on the knots keeping the bag shut. Fuck. I have nibbled my fingernails down to practically nothing out here and I cannot get the knots undone. 

‘This will not be my downfall,’ I think to myself, as I work on the knot with my teeth.   
“Ryan already working on his puzzle, Candace now untying her bag, Alyina struggling to undo those knots, Jill has her trunk open, and Eric finally has his key!” I finally feel one of the ropes start to give, and the knots slide apart with relative ease now. I open the bag and dump the pieces on the table. They are letter tiles. The corresponding spaces on the board read:   
__ __ __ __ __ __ __ - __ __ __ __ & __ __ __ __ __ __ with __ __ __ __. 

Arranged alphabetically, my tiles read: CDEEEFFHIIJLNNOOPRRTU

I run through the list of likely words in my head: ‘IMMUNITY,’ (no “y” tile), ‘REWARD,’ (no “A” tile), ‘FOOD,’ (that could work), ‘SPA,’ (no “s” tile)… and shuffle the tiles around the board, wracking my brain for solutions. I come up with “FOOD,” “CHEF,” “NOODLE,” “COOLER,” and chuckle at how singularly focused my mind is. I rearrange four letter words after “with,” trying to come up with variations that make sense. “NOODLE with _ _ _ _” doesn’t make a lot of sense to me. “COOLER with _ _ _ _?” What? Beer? Drinks? Nothing seems to fit. My mind is singularly focused on food, so I try all food-related six-letter words I can think of. 

“Everybody still working on this puzzle. Everybody still in it. After thirty-three days with very little food, the mental game is a little slow. Who is going to figure out this word puzzle and win reward?” I settle on the word “DINNER” as a likely candidate, because “DINNER with _ _ _ _” makes sense. I turn my focus to the four-letter word. “FOOD” seems unlikely, as ‘dinner’ implies ‘food.’ There’s a “J,” and on a crazy whim (or acting on my secret desires), I see if there are letters to spell “Jeff.” Sure enough, “DINNER with JEFF” fits in the blank spaces after the ampersand, but I have no idea about the first set of blanks.

“Candace moving letters quickly now. Candace thinks she has something…”   
“Oooh fuck. That’s a “J,” not another “I.” I hear her muttering, and I return my focus to my own letter board. “She does not have it! Everybody still in this!”  
My remaining letters are “” and it’s hyphenated? I can feel the sweat beading on my neck and back, running between my boobs and along my hairline. There is no shade. How long have we been standing here, working on these awful word puzzles? COIROUT

PILOT? CHORE? ‘No, that’s not it. I have a leftover letter,’ I murmur, shuffling the letter tiles around once again. CHOIR? POULET? (the French word for “chicken”). ‘English!’ I remind myself, ‘not French!’ HELP? COITU— ‘don’t even finish that thought!’ I chastise myself. 

“Candace thinks she has it!” Jeff runs over to Candace’s puzzle table, “no! That’s not it!” Candace bangs her fists on the table in frustration, and I glance over at her table. The only letters I can make out are “H-E-L-I” but that’s enough. I spell out “HELICOPTOR” but the spelling doesn’t look right, and there is a leftover “U,” so I arrange it again as two words: “HELICOP-TOUR” and that seems to make sense. I jump up and down, shouting “Jeff, Jeff” and hear Candace a minute later shouting the same thing. 

“Alyina thinks she has it! Is she right?” He runs over to my table, reads over the letters, and throws his arms into the air. “Yes! She figured it out. Alyina, read out the reward for us.”  
“Helicop-tour and dinner with Jeff,” I read uncertainly, looking at Jeff for confirmation. He grins. “Alyina wins reward! Alyina, this reward is for one person. Unless you want to give it up for someone else, you can head down the beach to where the helicopter is waiting.” I briefly look at Candace. I so wish I could share this reward with her. I mouth, “sorry!” and shake my head to let Jeff know that I am not giving this up.

“Pombatu, got nothing for you. The four of you head back to camp. Alyina will rejoin the group tomorrow.”  
Candace squeals, “have fun, girl!” and gives me a side hug before running over to join the others.   
I pick up my filthy rucksack and walk down the beach toward the whirring noise of the helicopter. Once there, a crew member fits me with ear protection and a headset and helps me climb up.   
I stare out the window across the ocean. The spinning helicopter blades create ripples across the water that occasionally clash with the incoming waves, mirroring my own internal struggle. As devastated that I am about my father’s death, I feel very excited about the helicopter tour and dinner with Jeff. Grief overshadows every other emotion—yet, I feel nervous about this alone time with Jeff, embarrassed that I am going on this ‘date’ wearing the same swimsuit and shorts that I’ve been wearing for thirty-four days, so I know I have the ability to feel more than the overbearing grief and sadness, but can I put that aside for the next twenty-four hours? 

I lean my head against the window, experiencing the rhythmic vibrations of the helicopter as the blades spin. I close my eyes and allow myself to relax into the seat, my head heavy with the ear protection and my body exhausted from the challenge. Minutes or perhaps second later, I feel a gentle touch on my leg and feel Jeff’s body next to mine. 

“If you sleep, you’re going to miss some stunning views,” he teases me, elbowing me jokingly in the side. I bite back my cheesy retort, ‘the only view I need is right next to me,’ because I know that the pilot and co-pilot can hear everything we’re saying. The helicopter blades circle faster, and in minutes, we are hovering above the sandy beach and the palm trees, over a canopy of green alternating with cerulean ocean. 

“Where are we going?” I squeak into the headset mic. Jeff doesn’t respond. He just smiles knowingly and takes my hand. I don’t object.  
The view is nice, with the sun illuminating the color variances in the waves as dolphins occasionally break the surface. I fight to keep my eyes open, wanting to savor this time with Jeff, but it’s a losing battle. The rhythmic vibrations of the helicopter and the white noise of the blades have lulled me to sleep. My head drops heavy onto Jeff’s shoulder. 

“Aly. Hey, Aly. You want to wake up for this. I promise.” Jeff shakes me awake, and I sit upright, blinking and wiping my face. I hope I didn’t drool on Jeff Probst. Embarrassing enough to fall asleep on a reward challenge and have it broadcast on live TV, but drooling on Jeff would be even worse!

“Whoa.” My jaw literally drops as I stare out the window. We were circling what looked like a volcano-turned-cave: a circular opening in pristine white cliffs revealed a cavernous chamber below, filled with crystal clear water. Along one section of the opening, a river tumbled over, creating a misty white waterfall into the cavern. The water was so clear that I could see the rocky bottom as if it were five feet below me. “I hope you’re ready for a swim,” Jeff prompts, removing his mic, ear protection, and shoes. I stare for a moment, before I realize that this, too, is being filmed, so I hastily look away and remove my own mic and ear protection. The helicopter is hovering about just above the opening of the cavern. I estimate it’s about a thirty foot drop into the water. Jeff slides off the seat and moves toward the door, holding a handle next to the opening. He mouths, “follow me,” and swings his legs over the side. I scoot over to occupy his seat briefly, before moving to sit next to him, and I watch, open-mouthed, as he lowers himself down to the rails of the helicopter, with balance like a gymnast, then leaps. 

Legs together, arms above his head holding his Survivor ball cap with one hand and holding his nose with the other, he enters the water with a splash and surfaces seconds later. He waves to me. I scoot my bottom close to the edge, reaching one shaking leg down to the rail, like a newborn faun trying to stand on wobbly legs. Once both feet are on the rail, the cameraman inside the hovering vessel gives me a thumbs-up, and I step off. I don’t have time to think about how terrifying this is, because the next minute, I am plunging into surprisingly warm water, and I surface, grinning. A splash nearby lets me know that the cameraman has jumped, exponentially more impressive considering that he was in full scuba gear and holding waterproof camera equipment. I ignore the fact that there is a camera nearby and gush to Jeff, “that was unreal.” 

“Cool, right? Pristine water. There are no trails, no roads here. It takes aircraft or serious technical climbing skills to access this.” We swim over to some rocks; Jeff climbs out first and extends his hand to pull me up. His wet shirt clings to his body, showing off surprisingly sculpted abs. He pulls his cap off and runs his fingers through his wet hair, showing me with droplets of water.   
“Gee, thanks,” I respond with a smirk, as I wring out my own ponytail and flick the excess in Jeff’s direction. We walk around the underground lake, scrambling on rocks and pausing every few minutes to enjoy the view. We get to a spot about ten feet above the water, where the rocks merge into steep cliffs and we are unable to walk any further. We sit here, feet dangling over the edge, the roaring waterfall echoing around the cavern. 

“How are you doing?”   
“At the moment, I feel pretty good, Jeff, largely thanks to you…” I meet his eyes, then look out at the water again. “But honestly, I’m not great. I miss my family. I wonder how they’re doing, how they’re coping with my dad’s death. I want to win this for him… but I don’t know if I can. When we got back to camp and found it strewn across the beach, I seriously considered quitting. What if I get this far and get voted out? I would feel like I had failed my father…” my voice trailed off, and Jeff put his arm around me. My anxiety hangs in the air for a moment, before Jeff asks quietly, 

“Did you apply to be on Survivor because of your dad?”  
“No, I did it for me. I’ve always been a fan of Survivor, and I wanted to prove to myself that I could do it, and show my students that they can overcome their individual obstacles and successful.”  
“What would your students say to you, right now?”  
I think for a moment. I think of my group of fourteen preschoolers with special needs, and picture what I would say to them in the face of challenging situations. Then I think about the ways they encourage and bolster each other through those times,  
“They wouldn’t say anything. They would probably just hug me, or color me a picture.” I smile, in spite of myself, remembering the time after my grandfather passed away when little Clara handed me a paper filled with pink scribbles and told me, “I color you pink wain-bows, cuz wain-bows make my happy.”   
“So you went on this adventure for yourself. Not your father. You told me, that night on the beach, that your father encouraged you to go on Survivor.” I nod.  
“He did. He believed in me, and he was proud of me for taking this on. I know rationally that he would be proud of me, even if I get voted out tomorrow. But when you’re hungry and exhausted—mentally and emotionally and physically—it’s hard to focus on those things you know are true. It’s hard to focus on the positive things, to draw inspiration from those around you, to see the beauty in the surrounding environment and be grateful for the opportunity.” I turn to face him, allowing my hand to rest on top of his hand on the rock. “I am grateful for this opportunity, Jeff.” I pray that the cameras are off as his face draws near to mine. Our lips meet tentatively, questioningly, and then I melt into his embrace.

***

I don’t recall much of how we got out of the underground lake, but after our exotic (erotic?) swim, we enjoyed a shish-kabob dinner overlooking the caverns where we enjoyed swimming and intimate conversations. I try to control myself as I enjoy the perfectly tender chicken and grilled vegetables, but it’s hard after a month of sporadic meals, mostly consisting of rice and poorly cooked fish.   
“Good, huh?” Jeff grins at me from over the plates full of food.  
“You have no idea, Jeff.”  
“More than two decades of this show and you think I have no idea?” he jests  
“Come on, Jeff. You’re living a life of luxury at the production camp while we’re sleeping on bamboo and eating unripe coconuts and poorly cooked fish. You have clean shirts to wear every day, while I can’t even tell what color my swimsuit is anymore!”  
“You signed up for this.” His eyes twinkle as he holds my gaze across the table. I blush.  
“I— yeah, you got me there.” 

“So are you ready to get your advantage for the next challenge?”  
“Oh, I forgot that was part of the reward…” I trail off, thinking hard: “I don’t want it, actually. I feel like the whole tribe just sort of pities me now and they’ve stopped playing the game around me. I’m not included in strategic discussion anymore, and I think if I have an advantage at the next challenge, I think they’ll stop seeing me as a real competitor. So no, I think I’ll pass.” Jeff regards me for a moment, his expression indiscernible.  
“You are unlike any other competitor or person I’ve ever met, Aly. I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone as genuine as you.” I blush, but can’t think of how to respond to this level of sincerity, so I reach my hand across the table to grasp his, acknowledging the words unspoken. After a moment, I remember another part of the reward challenge that was mentioned: the opportunity to shower and sleep in a real bed. 

“Sorry to kill the moment, but you mentioned something about a shower?” Jeff laughs and pushes back from the table. He walks around and like a true gentleman, helps me scoot my chair back from the table. He escorts me around the tented pavilion set up as our dining room and over to a clump of trees where a wooden shower stall had been set up, complete with body products, a fluffy towel, and a luxurious-looking bathrobe. I may have drooled a tiny bit.   
“There is a laundry soap bar in there as well, in case you want to kill two birds with one stone and do some laundry while you shower. Enjoy!” 

I disappear into the wooden stall, peeling off my swimsuit and shorts, which are considerably lighter now, due to repeated exposure to sun and the salty ocean. I grab the handle and pull, releasing a cascade of hot water over my head. Oh God. It feels amazing. I tip my head back and let the heavenly water stream down my face, sure that it must be washing away rivers of dirt and jungle grime. I release the handle and the water shuts off, giving me a chilly moment to reach for the basket of toiletries. I worry slightly that the fruity-scented products will make me more appealing to the mosquitoes, but that worry pales in comparison to the joy I feel at finally feeling human again. I wash my hair, face, and body, slightly disgusted by the state of my feet. Finally, I pull the grainy laundry bar out of the basket and run it over and over my grimy clothes, using the sides of the shower stall to provide additional friction. Once “clean,” I drape them over the side of the shower stall and pull the fluffy bathrobe around me, wrapping the towel around my floral-scented mane of tangles. 

When I emerge, I don’t see Jeff, but the scene that greets me is almost as astounding: the sun is setting, casting rays of coral-colored light across that play across the tops of the trees and jagged cliffs. The sunset backlights the spray of the waterfall into the caverns below, alighting the water droplets like glitter strewn across the sky. I pull a chair from our dining area and sit with my back to it, choosing to watch the sunset spread like watercolors on a wet canvas. I pull the towel from my head and start combing my tangled mane with my fingers, working patiently through the snarls and tangles. After a minute, I give up, wrapping it into a loose braid and choosing to focus on the setting sun.

A rustle behind me alerts me to Jeff’s presence back at our oasis, and I feel his strong hands on my bare shoulders. I tip my head back to look back at him.  
“How was your shower?”  
“Heavenly,” I sigh, smiling. He leans down and kisses me gently, then starts massaging my tense shoulders. I sigh audibly, closing my eyes. He works his thumbs into my trapezius muscle, finding all those sore spots exacerbated by sleeping on bamboo and holding onto things over my head (a theme of many individual immunity challenges). His hands work lower and unconsciously, I tense up. He stops, moving his hands as if burned.  
“What’s wrong?”  
“Sorry, I just… had a flashback to when Dakota grabbed me during the challenge after the merge. It was involuntary.” Jeff quiets for a moment.  
“You voted him out, Aly. He is not here anymore. You made a report to our legal team and the allegation is being taken seriously.” He stands with his hands on his hips, cocking his head uncertainly. 

I curse myself internally for dwelling on the negative and ruining the moment with Jeff, for making a scene when I could have just relaxed and enjoyed the affection and attention. I shake my head and then lower it into my hands.  
“I know. I’m sorry, Jeff. I don’t mean to sound ungrateful…” shame and embarrassment overwhelm me and the tears start to fall again. Jeff rubs circles on my back for a minute, then I feel his hands pulling mine down from my face and he pulls me to my feet.  
“I’m starting to think that I’m the reason you’re crying!” I chuckle in spite of myself, and Jeff wipes some stray tears from my cheeks.  
“You’re the reason I’m able to stop crying… occasionally. It’s just been tough. You know that. Dislocating my finger on day one should have clued me into what kind of a journey this would be… the unfortunate bout of vomiting, the situation with Dakota, hearing about my father’s stroke, our shelter being destroyed in a tropical storm…” I pause to look into his sea-colored eyes.

“Survivor is an emotional roller coaster for some.”  
“Calling this an emotional roller coaster would be too generous—it’s more like an emotional Tower of Terror. I’m hanging in the air just waiting for the next big drop!”   
“Not all drops are bad,” Jeff prompts, gesturing to the rocky cliffs a few hundred meters away that rim the cavernous opening to the underground cave.   
“That…” I begin, searching for a suitable rebuttal, “is a very good point.” I smile up at him, and he places a hand under my chin, wiping away the last of the tears with the pad of his thumb. He closes the distance between us, his lips meeting mine tenderly, spreading warmth from my lips through my neck and shoulders—releasing the tension that has been held there for weeks. My lips part slightly and I tilt my head sideways, inviting more intimacy into our kiss. He reciprocates, parting his own lips and flicking his tongue against mine. I wrap my arms around his muscular back, pulling myself closer, trying to press every part of me against him. With one hand, he unwinds my hair from its haphazard braid, then combs his fingers through my tangled—albeit clean—hair. His lips pull slowly away from mine again and plant a row of succulent kisses down my cheek and neck. I kiss him fiercely in response, emboldened by his compliment, and allow my own tongue to dance between our shared lips. He twirls my damp hair through his fingers, then trails them down my neck and down to the opening in the bathrobe. 

“Good thing I got that shower, huh?” I tease, licking my lower lip and biting it coyly.  
“Thirty-some-odd seasons of this, Aly. After a while, I just don’t even notice.”  
“Says the best-groomed man out here!” I retort, smacking my hand playfully against his clean and pressed shirt. He plants a kiss right on my goofy grin and threads his fingers through mine, tugging me away from the reward set-up.

“You ready for the last part of your reward?” His eyes twinkle, and I eye him suspiciously. He reminds me of Puck in a Midsummer Nights Dream as he pulls me away from the rocky cliffs and toward the canopy of trees, near the shower stall. Just as the bamboo slats of the shower stall come into view, we veer to the right, heading into thicker groves of trees. Ahead, there is a clearing, and set up in the middle:

“a bed?” I gasp, looking at Jeff. Set up on bamboo slats is a bed—a real, actual bed with a mattress and sheets and pillows. There is a fine netting strung between bamboo posts and some sort of clear plastic sheeting to protect the setup from rain, while still providing an unobstructed view of the stars. With childlike glee, I run down to the clearing, circling the mesh canopy once to find the opening, and then throw myself onto the bed.   
“I’ve been sleeping under the stars for thirty-four days, Jeff, but this is next-level. I don’t know if I will be able to sleep with all this comfort after getting my body used to bamboo and palm fronds and other players’ limbs!” He laughs heartily, walking in behind me.  
“I mean, you can strip the bed and just sleep on the bamboo if you want…” I wiggle down into the bedding, feeling the down bedding envelop my weary limbs like a mother embraces a child.  
“I think I’ll manage,” I grin, then sit up and pat the bed next to me. He stands his ground, hands on his hips.

“The reward said, ‘dinner with Jeff,’ not ‘sleepover with Jeff,” he reiterates, eyes twinkling, and I sigh and roll my eyes.  
“Yeah, I guess this might be slightly awkward if, say, Ryan won the reward challenge. Although, come to think of it, I could totally see him being gay, or bi.” I shrug. “No judgement here.” He laughs again, then walks over to sit next to me.  
“Unfortunately, nights are quite busy at production camp. We have our staff meetings, go over any incidents that happened, review how challenges went, get tree-mail and other things ready…” I nod appreciatively, realizing as I do so how heavy my head feels. He reaches over and takes my hand,   
“In the morning, someone will come collect you and return you to the camp. Get some rest. You earned it.” He kisses me again, pushing me backwards onto the pillows.   
“Thank you, Jeff. For everything,” I murmur, fighting off sleep.   
“Goodnight, Aly.” He whispers as I pull the covers over me and roll over to look at him.   
His final whisper, “there’s no one else I wanted to win this reward,” is barely discernible as my eyes drift close and peaceful, restful sleep brings respite to my weary soul.   
***


End file.
